Ah, woe, woe. But be oif good cheer. You'll be out of there before you know it. Oncer you are, there is a long slow process of rebuilding and re-strengthening, which is a Royal PITA but which you must undertake with courage and optimism.

In a few hours they will come for me. I will rendered unconscious and then I will be filled full of holes -- I suppose they think it's more humane that way. I don't blame those who do this thing; they are only doing what they are ordered to do. Remember that my last thoughts will be of you and the sibs.

And Mom: Let no man (or woman) write my epitaph until MOAB has taken her rightful place among the nations of the Earth.

It's sorta like my dear old mother used to tell me: "Son, into each life, a poophead will come. Someday, while you're just minding your own business, someone will tap you on the shoulder and, when you turn to face him, he'll say, 'Hi! I'm your poophead!' It's unavoidable. It happens to everyone. How do you think I met your father?"

Amos, if you play your cards right, you can sneak into Rap's room before he's fully awake and have him sign a form that lets you have all of that bright red carpet from the basement that is stacked in the back of the garage after they pulled it up. That, plus a buried freezer, and maybe a bucket of golf balls, is a pretty darned impressive bequest from this rootin' tootin' libarian.

By now our Good Bookmeister is home cussing and hurting, I suspect. Every impulse to pick up something has to be constrained and rechanneled to the other arm, and turning over in bed hurts like hell. Not only that but he is about to start a physical therapy regime which is a pure-dee caterwauling, razor-clawed Missouri-bred pain in the ass.

The Cat has returned, it couldn't stay away. Howsomeever, the literate and charming amputeeoperee known as Raparee is still adamant in his refusal to use his proper name, and insists on using Rapayre, spelled similarly to "repair" which is what he hopes happened to his arm.

But you can bet he won't write any perfumed thank-you notes or leave any voice-mails saying "Hey, Doc!! Thanks for reepareeing my arm!!" It just don't stand to reason.

Lacking such rationale it is clear in the matter of his name we are facing stubborn, autocratic, arbitrary and whimsical typographical idiosyncrasy.

You are, as I have said several times before, facing the stubborn, autocratic, arbitrary and whimsical typographical idiosyncrasy of one of the standard dictionaries of the Irish language. I might also have used "Tory" "Highwayman" or, if it had not already be registered, "Raparree."

While you're at it, you might consider amending a long list of other unfeeling and insensitive remarks you have made as well in the last 10 years or so, particularly those directed toward my friend Chongo. I'll PM you a list shortly. ;-) Be prepared for a very loooooooong download time when you click on it.

Ye filthy spalpeen! Callin' the language of Cu and the Fiann and Pearse and Miles the Slasher and Maeve and Patrick Grainna and Columba and Rory O'More "foreign" brands ye as sassenach and a heathen without sense of either history or poetry!

Sure, and I'll post in the language of the Oppressor the words from the great Brian Merriman:

Everyone knows you were born in a ditch Your ugly ancestors can't boast of their blood They're aimless louts, sprung from the mud. Everyone knows your father's a creep Without friends or fame, common and cheap A grey old yo-yo with no erudition Without cup or bowl, racked with malnutrition, Not a stitch his back, no coat on his body A súgán for a belt, his footwear shoddy. Believe me, people, if he was sold at the fair Of all of his debts he couldn't take care By the saints who are holy, 'twould make the news If he then could afford a bottle of booze.

One would have thought that THAT much water would have cooled the rhetoric by now. Especially with that one sprinkler head that's broken. A couple of the guys got hit kind of low and hard by that jet of water. But there's Rap, singing along. I wonder--maybe his pain meds muted that hit. (I didn't mean to do it, but it was funny to watch them suddenly jump and run!)

Wel;l, I have been loading up the kayak for another incredible inimitabler sunrise adventure -- I am slightly concerned about the recent reports of record breaking surf, due to heavy weathe rout in Tahiti somewhere. But we will push through, our duty plain before us.

I'm back, Mom--a perfect entry, and ap erfect exit in a fast roller. The sea was not high as I feared, but it wa slively with strong, low swells. I could not stay on my toes, being seated, but I did have to stay alert. Nevertheless it was a lovely small cruise.

At the bulky waste drop-off yesterday I saw a large yellow fibreglass paddleboat. If I could have fit it in the pickup I'd have brought it home. Perfect for the pond in my creek. Not so seaworthy, but sufficient for plucking trash from the brushy banks.